Illengond Page 37

  And so his soldiers had given their horses full reign in their quick dash back toward the cut, urging from them all the speed they could so he would not become the ambushed instead of the ambushers. Arriving ahead of the enemy, they had tied their horses in the woods on the far side of the hill, and set to work laying the trap. At Terrid’s orders, twelve of them waited, bows in hand, along the slope above the trail on the west side, opposite the mountain ridge. The others hid on the steeper east slope that led up the higher bluff. The second group had selected a pair of tall trees leaning out over the trail, and cut them near to falling. With some makeshift levers, they would topple them at the appropriate moment. If their timing was good, the falling trees would not only block off the trail but might fell two or three riders in the process. Then all that would remain would be to hold the enemy back as long as possible. Or perhaps to lead them on a wild chase southward, away from Dhan.

  But the ambush never happened. All day Terrid waited, his men silent and unmoving. No enemy came. The sun sank and still they waited, hiding on the hillside as the cold night air set them to shivering. Alert for the sounds of an approaching company, they huddled together without any fire, one group on the east side and another on the west. Early the following morning Terrid sent out scouts. They returned late in the morning with the report that a large company had indeed been traveling northward, but late the previous day, just a few miles to the south, they had suddenly veered to the northwest and started off at a great pace out across the edge of the Raws.

  “Where did they turn?” Terrid asked. “And why?”

  “Something alerted them of our ambush,” the other one guessed.

  Cursing, Terrid ordered his men to their horses to join the pursuit. But a day and a half had been lost, and Dhan’s trail was cold. They rode as hard as they dared, but by nightfall they were still many hours behind.

  The chase continued throughout the next day until they reached the trade road. There Terrid’s men had come suddenly onto the back of El-Phern’s company. That encounter almost ended in disaster for Terrid. Fortunately, the overconfident El-Phern was not concerned about attack from behind and had only a token rear guard. And that rear guard, seeing the blue uniforms of Terrid’s men, assumed they were reinforcements from Citadel and waited for them. By the time they learned differently, it was too late; no message ever reached El-Phern.

  Terrid then made the hardest of his choices. His first instinct was to attack El-Phern at once, coming at him suddenly from the rear. Outnumbered though Terrid’s company was, surprise would be on his side. Unfortunately, he had little chance of getting ahead of the enemy and picking a good place from which to ambush them. And without a defensible position, it would end quickly for Terrid and his men once El-Phern’s company regrouped. The second choice was to continue pursuit from a safe distance, and bide their time. Perhaps they might come to the aid of the prince at a more opportune time. Terrid took the second choice, not because he feared for his own life, but because it seemed the better way to help Dhan. And so for the next two days he followed the larger company through the mountains, keeping two hours’ distance behind them.

  On the first day north of the trade road he came upon the company of Andan hunters. Highlander Rebels, they called themselves. They were hunters and shepherds, for the most part, disorganized and with only a handful of real soldiers among them. Yet they were hardy and strong, like most Andani, and determined. They had traveled from Aeti, fifty of them. Most had lost homes or families to the Daegmon. Hearing that soldiers from Citadel were now in their land, raiding supplies and taking prisoner any who resisted, their desperation reached its limit. The bolder ones formed a small rebel band and came to fight the soldiers. They might have attacked Terrid if he hadn’t seen them first, guessed their intent, and sent a messenger to parley.

  So Terrid found himself leading a much larger force up the slope of Mount Illengond, following El-Phern’s trail and hoping that Dhan’s tracks lay somewhere trampled beneath El-Phern’s. Fortunately, the Andani knew these hills and woods. Not that Terrid would have needed help following the trail in front of him. But it was good to have folk with him who were familiar with the landscape. Crossing the valley and traversing the ridge where Thimeon had led the companions the day before, Terrid discovered the site of the first battle. There, his hope diminished. The avalanche had buried any clear signs of how the battle had gone, so that even the skilled Andan trackers had no way of knowing much of what happened. Yet it was evident that a battle had taken place, and that El-Phern’s company had taken up positions around a small camp. Patches of blood in the snow made it clear that many had fallen.

  “What do you make of it?” one of Terrid’s scouts asked.

  Terrid, fearing the worst, was silent a moment. The tracks of El-Phern’s company headed westward after the battle. “We have come too late,” he said. “Our quest has failed.”

  “Not ours,” said the Andani. “While these soldiers remain in our land, we will not give up pursuit. Will you still lead us, or do we go on alone?”

  Terrid sighed. “I will still lead you. If I have come too late to help my friends, at least I will exact vengeance.”

  A day later, Terrid discovered the large enemy camp on the southwestern slope of the mountain. There also, for the first time, he saw the Daegmons. In fear he had almost turned back. But the Andani would not be turned away. They had lost too much to fear death any more. So Terrid and his men, along with the Andani, made a small camp one mile back to the east, out of sight of their foe. And from a hidden vantage in a cleft of a south-facing spur of the Mountain, he kept watch from above on the flank of the Citadel forces. He was there watching late the next day when saw something strange: Golach’s troop had formed battle lines and gone charging up the slope. Though Terrid could not see around the slope to where Dhan’s company stood waiting, nor hear the clash of swords, it had taken him only a minute to guess what was happening.

  As fast as he could, he returned to camp and roused his men. Without giving away their position, they worked their way along the slope of the mountain and came around to the battle just a few yards higher up than Braga’s men. There he made his final strategic decision. He sent the Andan hunters down around to harry the Citadel forces from below, while he crept forward—not realizing that a few dozen yards above him sat the five Daegmons.

  Braga backed slowly along the hillside, watching in horror as his defenses crumbled. Four of his men lie on the ground, unmoving. Others bore serious injuries. Only Namha remained, somehow, unscathed. They did not have long remaining.

  Then five blue uniforms broke through on the right side. Braga spun around, preparing himself to defend against an attack from the rear. But the enemy did not turn. Ignoring the Undeani altogether, they continued their charge across the hillside. For an instant, Braga stared in surprise. Then he understood. They didn’t care about him. They had been sent to attack the prince’s company from behind. That there were only five of them didn’t matter; even a small surprise assault from behind would be the end for Dhan. Braga had failed to guard the left flank. In desperation, he abandoned his own men and raced across the hillside after the attacking soldiers, giving no thought to what he could do against five of them if he caught them.

  They had several steps lead. Half way across the distance, he had gained only two steps. He would not reach them in time. He shouted a warning to the prince as he ran, but his voice was drowned by the clash of swords. He looked ahead and his heart sank. The only one who stood between the Citadel soldiers and the prince’s back was a frightened Jhonna. She had turned just in time to see them coming. She didn’t even know how to hold a sword. They would cut her down in an instant.

  Mustering all the energy he had left, Braga lunged with his ax-arm outstretched—half leaping and half diving—hoping to trip up the closest soldier. His effort fell short by four feet and he landed on his face in a patch of beaten snow.
In despair and horror, he lifted his eyes and watched. Just thirty yards away, the beautiful and terrified Jhonna stood, pale and shaking, with only a knife in her hand. Yet she did not back down as the foremost soldier bore down on, and Braga could only watch her die.

  An eager young soldier darted forward straight toward the prince. He was no more than eighteen years of age, with dark curly hair and a smooth face. He didn’t even have a helmet. Where had Golach recruited him? Dhan tried to parry his blow and turn him away—to knock him out or force him from battle. The soldier’s face was white, but he did not relent. Perhaps he was intent on glory. Or maybe he was afraid of Golach. Dhan deflected a blow easily. His return thrust was instinct, and training. The young soldier had no such training. The prince’s blade drove deep into his gut just below the ribs. He looked up in surprise and pain and fear, and then fell over backward.

  For a moment the prince just lowered his sword arm in shame and sorrow. Then a cry of warning caught his attention. It came from behind. The voice of Braga. Before Dhan even looked, he feared the worst: that his left flank had fallen. Backing a step away from the line of battle, he spun to see what new danger approached. The first thing he saw was Lyn, waving his sword and rushing up the hill. Dhan’s eyes swept twenty feet further ahead. His heart lurched with yet more horror. Jhonna had turned her back on Lyn, and he was charging at her from behind!

  The prince clenched his fist in a rage unlike anything he had ever felt. The young Westwasher had chosen his moment to carry out his betrayal, and the helpless Jhonna would be his first victim. “Bastard!” Dhan shouted, and sprung toward him. But he came too late and was too far away. Coming up behind Jhonna, Lyn raised his sword—clumsily and with little skill, but with the strength of a youth who had grown up doing the hard physical labor of a fisherman. “I’ll kill you,” the prince breathed.

  But Lyn did not strike Jhonna. He was looking further up the hill. He took a step past Jhonna. Then Dhan looked past Lyn and saw what he had missed. Five enemy soldiers had broken through Braga’s defense and now charged down toward the prince’s beleaguered company from behind. Lyn turned and glanced briefly at his sister, sixty pounds his lighter and no more trained as a soldier than he, fighting side-by-side with Hrevia. Then with one hand, he pushed Jhonna backward and out of harm’s way. With the other he swung with all his might at the legs of the attacker.

  It was not the most skillful stroke of battle that day, yet none were more valiant. The blow slashed through the blue uniform, gashing one of his opponent’s legs and nicking the other just below the knees. The soldier stumbled forward as a result of Lyn’s blow. His stroke flew wide of its mark as he careened past Jhonna down the hill. But the second soldier rushed in just steps behind. Lyn, inexperienced in battle, did not prepare his second stroke. Dhan charged to the young Westwasher’s defense, intent now on rescuing his life instead of taking it. But the foremost soldier was already rolling to his feet.

  The prince raised his blade and easily deflected the blow aimed at his own legs. His eyes swung up the hill just in time to see Lyn fall with a cry as his attacker finished him off and turned toward Jhonna. Again the prince bellowed in anguish. He swept past his own assailant as if he weren’t there, removing the soldier’s sword arm in the progress. But twenty feet still separated him from his goal. He saw Jhonna cower as her enemy raised his blade, and heard Lyn writhe in pain as his insides leaked onto the icy ground.

  Then, for no visible reason, the soldier crumbled over, clutching his stomach. The sword slipped from his hands and he collapsed slowly to the ground. Fifteen steps behind him the next soldier stumbled and fell also, his outstretched arm coming to rest just a yard and a half from the girl’s feet as she watched him in horror. Dhan’s eyes opened in wonderment. A fraction of a second later and three steps behind the third soldier, the fourth fell, splayed onto the beaten snow with his sword beneath him forward. The fifth soldier, seeing his fallen comrades, paused in confusion and turned. Then he, too, grasped at his chest and collapsed.

  Dhan did not stop to look for an explanation for the miraculous salvation, but rushed to Lyn’s side. Lyn’s eyes were open and he was still breathing, but Dhan could see that his wounds were fatal. “Elynna,” Lyn whispered, as the prince knelt by his side.

  “It is me, the prince,” Dhan answered.

  “Tell my sister…”

  “Tell her what?”

  A smile cracked on Lyn’s face. “Tell her I was true. Tell her I love her.”

  “I will,” Dhan said. Then he jumped up, remembering suddenly something he had heard from Thimeon about a gift of healing. “Tienna!” he called, scanning over the battle lines for sight of the Plainswoman. But his call came too late. Lyn’s eyes shut and his breathing stopped. The prince leaned over and felt for a pulse. He felt none. “I’m sorry I misjudged you,” he whispered. He stood there only a second. Then the urgent sounds of battle pulled him away.

  40

  HUNTRESS AND HEALER

  Braga rose to his feet. He had witnessed everything, and could hardly believe Jhonna was still alive—that all five of the attacking soldiers were dead. The miraculous reprieve was beyond all hope. And beyond explanation, too. What had caused them to fall?

  He stepped forward to retrieve his axe, even as the prince raced back to the line of battle. As he did, he looked more closely at the bodies of the slain. His eyes widened at what he saw. Four of the fallen soldiers were stuck with arrows. Not the crow-fletched shafts of Undeani warriors, but the blue-feathered arrows of Citadel. Where had they come from? Braga spun around and looked back at his men. The arrows had not come from them. Even had they managed to scavenge the enemy’s spent shafts, they’d had no time to shoot; they were too busy with their axes and spears. The arrows had fallen from heaven, it seemed.

  At that instant, however, Braga had to stop his questions, for two more enemy soldiers had just broken through the Undeani line and were charging down at him. Ax in hand, he stood to face them—only to watch them both fall, five yards away, each with two more blue-feathered shafts protruding from their back.

  This time Braga had seen the last ten yards of the arrows’ flights. He turned his eyes up the slope. Thirty yards above him a row of twenty-four uniformed soldiers was descending the slope with a stern-faced lieutenant at their head. Who they were, Braga did not know, but he did not begrudge their presence. From their vantage up the slope, their archers had already felled several of the attackers. Now they drew their swords.

  “Into the fray,” the lieutenant shouted, “And keep clear of the Undeani lest they take you for an enemy.”

  The lieutenant’s words brought Braga back to the dangers that still faced his people. Gripping his battle-ax in his hand, he rushed back across the top of the ledge, and down the slope to join his people. Somehow, miraculously, Breanga, Jama, and Regon still held the position, led by Namha who outfought them all. His heart leapt to see Regon, unscathed, fighting as bravely as the men. He shouted out in the Undeani tongue as he came, warning his people not to fight the soldiers who came behind him. The words were barely out of his mouth when a dozen soldiers in blue swept past him and fell upon their attackers.

  The skirmish on his flank did not last much longer. Though a minute earlier the enemy had been on the verge of victory, they were already sorely weakened by their uphill assault and by the fierce defense of Namha. And they were without their captain. When this new company of soldiers came charging down, what remained of El-Phern’s men were taken utterly by surprise. For a brief time, blue uniform fought against blue, while the remaining Undeani drew back and watched in confusion. Then it ended. The vanguard of El-Phern’s force was crushed.

  “I don’t know who you are,” Braga said in the trade tongue, as the mysterious lieutenant wiped his blade clean, “but we thank you.”

  “I am Terrid,” the man said. “A friend of the prince. I have twenty-four trained soldiers. Another fifty
Andan hunters are moving through the woods with orders to attack Golach’s camp from the side, if they can.”

  Braga’s eyes opened in excitement. “The prince will need you most now,” he said, pointing back across the hill toward where Dhan and his company were defending the center of the slope. Terrid turned and began shouting orders to his men. In an instant, all but six of them charged across the slope to the aid of their beleaguered prince. The rest remained to bolster Braga’s company in case the enemy attacked again on that side.

  For the first time in many minutes, Braga felt a sense of relief and hope. Then his eyes fell on his fallen men, and his heart again fell. Kreeg and Arreg both lay dead. Nahoon’s eyes were still open, but his wound was grievous. He would die soon if he did not get help.

  Thimeon had only a few final moments to collect his breath. In a last effort to hold off the advancing enemy, he and Jhaban reformed their weakened company into a small semi-circle. The wounded Noaem and Bandor lay on the ground in the middle. The others now faced many times their number of sheepskin-clad attackers coming at them from three sides with spear and ax. They had already been pushed twenty yards backward from where the slain Lluanthro sat pinned to a tree, his lifeless eyes staring into space. Anchara had fought valiantly, but it was clear from how she held her sword that she was fatigued. Thimeon knew she would not last. Even the iron-willed Jhaban looked hopeless.

  “What did the prince say?” Jhaban asked.

  “To hold our ground,” Thimeon replied.

  Jhaban growled a curse. Thimeon knew it was not aimed at him or the prince, but at the futility of their situation. The command could not be kept. Yet they would hold the ground as long as they could, for what else could they do?

  His brief reprieve ended. Once more the Undeani warriors came at them with ax and spear, and Thimeon prepared to give his life.